


your heart's against my chest

by prouvairing



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Crying, Cuddling & Snuggling, Hurt/Comfort, Multi, girl!triumvirate
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-21
Updated: 2014-03-21
Packaged: 2018-01-16 12:49:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 767
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1348060
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prouvairing/pseuds/prouvairing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“So my mother called,” she says simply, letting the sentence hang. It speaks for itself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	your heart's against my chest

**Author's Note:**

> Shamelessly written to cope with my own parental drama. Wish I could get some Enjolras cuddles but alas!

When Courfeyrac comes home from class, on Thursday, she finds Enjolras curled up on the couch, glaring at her laptop. By the intensity of the glare, she would guess Enjolras is either writing a scathing letter to a local politician, or chatting with Grantaire. Amazing how the thing hasn’t burst into flames already, Courfeyrac often thinks.

All in all, she doesn’t particularly care about Enjolras’ laptop, right now.

Courfeyrac’s chest feels hollow, as she thumbs the side of the key, the jagged edges biting into her skin. Enjolras looks up, still frowning, and takes notice of Courfeyrac standing in the door. If possible, the crease between her brows deepens.

“Courf, you alright?” she asks, quite solemnly. Enjolras does everything with a passion.

It makes lying to her very difficult, especially so for Courfeyrac, who is not used to hiding anything from her and Combeferre. There has never been a need to.

So she doesn’t.

“So my mother called,” she says simply, letting the sentence hang. It speaks for itself.

Enjolras’ red lips purse to match her glare. She’s pulled up her hair, pinning it with a pencil, and the curls are starting to escape. They crown her head in gold, angry like Medusa’s snakes.

Courfeyrac can see her bite her tongue, and appreciates the effort that Enjolras is putting into _not_ bursting into a rant of righteous rage.

So Enjolras says nothing, and does not ask if Courfeyrac wants to talk about it. She wordlessly closes her laptop and places it on the coffee table, then holds out her arms expectantly.

She looks extremely cozy, in her red hoodie and black leggings, and Courfeyrac all but dives into her embrace, letting her backpack fall to the floor.

She curls up against Enjolras’ side and hides her face in her neck. Enjolras’s arms fold around her, one hand curling around Courfeyrac’s knee. Courfeyrac noses at the blonde hair curling at Enjolras’ nape, breathing in the smell: sharpened pencils and the vanilla and chamomile shampoo Combeferre bought.

Enjolras doesn’t ask: she isn’t good at comforting and giving advice, that’s Combeferre’s division. What she can do is hold Courfeyrac and wait for her to elaborate.

“We fought,” Courfeyrac says. Enjolras hand, on her knee, pulls Courfeyrac’s legs over and across her lap. The other, around Courfeyrac’s shoulder, is playing with short locks of dark hair. Courfeyrac goes on, “Well, not really. Pretty sure you need two people to fight, and this was definitely one-sided. Don’t think she knows she did anything wrong.” She draws deep, long breaths, because she has absolutely no intention to cry.

Her voice still breaks when she says, to the column of Enjolras’ throat. “Why am I never enough?”

Enjolras’ hand in her hair stills. Courfeyrac doesn’t see what sort of face she’s is making, but she thinks her Righeous Fury scowl might have just gotten worse.

However, when Enjolras speaks, her voice is surprisingly soft. “Of course you’re enough,” she says, and her hand resumes its motions. There’s that usual Enjolras brand of passion in her voice, but it’s hushed now, intimate. “Of course you are.”

The door creaks open, Combeferre walks in. Courfeyrac starts crying.

Combeferre freezes on the doorstep, a strap of her tote bag sliding off her shoulder, ponytail in disarray and glasses sliding down her nose. “What’s going on?” she asks, eyeing the two of them wrapped around each other.

“Courf’s mom,” Enjolras says, and suddenly Combeferre is frowning too.

Her expression softens immediately when she meets Courfeyrac’s eyes, however. She smiles softly and says, “Oh, love.”

Somewhere in a corner of Courfeyrac’s mind there’s her mother chattering away about her inevitable wedding to a boy. It sounds distant and washed out, ridiculous, with Combeferre smiling at her from the door, with the bridge of freckles along her nose, her sweater set and skinny jeans.

_Combeferre_.

Courfeyrac’s heart thumps uselessly and she sniffs.

Combeferre bag falls beside Courfeyrac’s and she toes off her shoes to join them on the couch. She settles down on Courfeyrac’s other side, legs curled at Courfeyrac’s hip, chest against her back.

Combeferre starts talking. _She_ is good at the comforting thing, and both Enjolras and Courfeyrac relax in her presence. Her voice is low and slightly hoarse as she tells Courfeyrac that they can stay here a while, and then have tea and maybe marathon Game of Thrones. Her arm is wrapped around Courfeyrac’s waist and her light blue sweater is absolutely as soft as it looks.

She smells like vanilla and chamomile too. Courfeyrac fancies that she can feel Combeferre’s heart beating against her back.

**Author's Note:**

> Fic is right [here](http://seagreeneyes.tumblr.com/post/80179833476/your-hearts-against-my-chest) on tumblr, do say hello!


End file.
